Italian Hour

I arrive at the train station ten minutes early and approaching, see a train on the tracks. Thinking the 9.10 came early, I race down and find myself a seat. Five minutes later, still at the station, the conductor passes by looking at every seat and overhead shelf, asking if anyone has seen a black purse. Niente.

Next station, ten minutes later, the same scene is repeated. Niente ancora. We stand for another ten minutes. Trains are passing by on the over side at an alarming rate. Don't they run every half hour?

We get to the third stop. The conductor passes. A caribiniero (police officer, misspelled) passes through. Ten minutes pass. Same caribiniero passes through again. Wait. Wasn't he walking in the same direction he walked the last time? Did he walk out of the train and start at the bottom again?

Gypsy band members outside are showing their oversized, unvarnished instruments to curious stragglers. The giant cello has only three strings, and one of them is light green. That's not normal. Never noticed there were so many mountains in this particular area. Thank God the kid across from me, wearing a Dolce and Gabbana dog tag around his neck, has started listening to music I recognize. Under the Umbrella, eh eh eh?

My last analysis assignment for the year is now being used as journal material. The cell phone in the pocket of the man standing next to me just went off in my ear. I'm still estatically happy that the hot water and heat came back on last night. But maybe setting the temperature at 80 was a little extreme.

The train has started moving. As far as I know, they never found the purse.